Old Wobbly Man
David Bridie, John Phillips
I sit in my wooden box
And feel the edges damp and rough
The rain that falls upon my back
Everyone inside their rooms
But no one wants to play
The words with which we made up things
Aren't working anymore
An open space where no one lives
We are strangers in this land
In the wet season on a light blue sky
And then no more
I heard the old wobbly man say
One by one we drop hey hey
And all that's good will drift away
Like the waters down
